


Water in a Whiskey Glass

by hypothetical_chainsaw



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Canon Typical Misogyny, F/M, Menopause, Pre-Canon, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27352684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypothetical_chainsaw/pseuds/hypothetical_chainsaw
Summary: 80 years before canon, a Spellman/Blackwood alliance would solidify their place at the head of two of the coven's most powerful families. Tomorrow would bring it about, tomorrow she would have Hilda confirm it, and tomorrow she would start the journey to most powerful witch the Church of Night had seen in centuries.
Relationships: Faustus Blackwood/Zelda Spellman
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	Water in a Whiskey Glass

It was thanks, no, _penance,_ that found Zelda here again, caught beneath his flexing form as he too sought forgiveness for what was fast becoming a repeat offence. A spiriting away of yet another bastard daughter before questions could be asked. Yet this time was different; this time mother left with baby in her arms. Had insisted on it. ‘No one else would raise their daughter. Their Prudence.’

To say Faustus had been riled at the knowledge that mother and baby had slipped away into the night had been an understatement. The penance delivered should have been far greater than this; lost in ecstasy beneath him, her name upon his lips. But his hand was soft with every stroke across her stomach as if he knew, as she did, what the gentle swell there meant. _A son._

She hissed as his efforts doubled; even the cool caress of silk sheets friction enough to pain the fresh welts across her back. Though she doubted a single crack of the crop had drawn blood. Each purely symbolic. Not a single one drifting below her shoulders, not this time.

The hand that would normally clutch her throat, instead squeezed at her breast, pawing the new heaviness that had come with the subtle rounding of her stomach. If his blasphemous utterances were anything to go by, he would be lost soon, overcome with the knowledge of the gift the Dark Lord had seen fit to bestow upon them.

" _Satan, yes."_ The thought alone was enough to have her careening over the edge with him, drawing him in for a bruising kiss as his hips stuttered against her.

He knew just as well as she did - pulled her into his side when his arms shook, rather than collapsing above her, caressed her stomach as her breathing slowed. The warmth of his chest against her back elicited quite the same hiss as the chill of the sheets had, and yet she softened into his embrace all the same.

It was only as her heart rate settled that she slipped from the comfort of his arms, beginning the search for each hastily discarded slip of clothing; her favourite satin girdle, the bra that now squeezed just a fraction too tight.

“No cigarette?” Faustus took in the last of her flesh on show before it was hidden beneath her wrinkled wiggle dress.

Of course he’d notice. Zelda Spellman was a creature of habit, reliably so. No matter the locale, a cigarette had been part of her postcoital routine for some hundred and fifty years now. That she had not accepted a whiskey upon arrival had earned her a similarly raised eyebrow to the one he sported now. If her glow hadn’t screamed it, her avoidance of her usual vices certainly made it clear.

Her eyes met his as she slipped on her heels, lip quirking at the corner, “No, I don’t think it would agree with me tonight.” They both understood the inference.

He reclined back into his pillows, supping at what remained of his own whiskey as she slipped silently from the room.

She had never been invited to his bed before. She still was not permitted to stay the night.

Tomorrow she'd have Hilda confirm it and tomorrow, with his arms around their child, she _would_ stay the night. Tomorrow, he would know that she was responsible for the joining of two of the coven’s most powerful families.

* * *

As early as she must be, there would be no way to ascertain whether it truly was a son she was carrying, not yet, though every expectant mother who had passed through their doors in the last century had known implicitly when they were to be blessed with a warlock. What had seemed banded together from a string of old witch’s tales was now unquestionably true; a witch just knew. As Zelda knew when she cornered Hilda the following morning when Edward had left for the Academy.

The frown that sullied her sister’s features was not the response she’d hoped for, “Zelda, you’re not married.” Whether it was meant to be concern or judgement was unclear.

“No.” She confirmed, despite how unnecessary it was.

They’d seen plenty of unwed mothers through the years; were always bound to with the coven’s propensity towards orgiastic celebrations. Every child of Night was a gift from the Dark Lord himself; a sign that one was worthy to pass on his teachings.

“If Edward were to find out...” Hilda’s hands twisted in each other’s grasp.

It was concern then. Unwarranted concern; she would have her turtledove hearts long before he knew. If Edward’s sermons were anything to go by, it wouldn’t much matter if Faustus asked for her hand or not. He’d taken a far more _liberal_ approach to matters of marriage than their late father. There was no reason to believe that this would be otherwise.

“I require your midwifery skills, not your sisterly advice.”

Hilda gave a sharp nod before leading her down to the basement, her internal conflict still thick in the air.

Had the pinard horn been large enough for her to, Zelda would have conducted the check up herself. There were few moments she enjoyed more than hearing the strength of each baby’s heartbeat as it fluttered beneath the skin.

Perhaps she would take the horn with her tonight, have Faustus press it to the gentle curve of her stomach, hear for himself what they had created.

She settled further into the mortuary slab, eyes flicking to her sister now regarding the bare expanse of her stomach. Still her brow furrowed. Hilda had spent too long around mortals since their return to Greendale, adopted too many of their ideals; those surrounding matrimony seemingly one of them.

“I don’t have all day, Hilda.” Zelda admonished, the frigid air pimpling her skin.

While it may have been the first time Zelda had been the one up for examination, Hilda was by no means new to this. Nor, after so many years of sharing a room did she have any right to be bashful at viewing the smallest slither of skin.

Her frown remained unmoving as she palpated Zelda’s stomach, perhaps creasing further. Zelda bit back the vitriol that frothed deep in her throat, focus drifting skyward, counting away the threat of high blood pressure pounding in her ears. This would be a joyous moment, bested only by the one to follow; when she told Faustus with certainty. The reverence he had shown her the night before would be magnified tenfold by confirmation that she would be their making; cast them higher in church standings together than they ever could hope for apart.

The pinard was colder than Hilda’s hands, an involuntary shiver rippling her shoulders, pulling at the healing flesh that lay there.

“When did you last bleed?”

“Four months, maybe five.”

She hadn’t been counting at first. Four would be more likely, if her stomach was anything to go by, but her _festivities_ and late night assignations had gone undisturbed at least since Lupercalia. It had only been the glimmer in Faustus’ eyes as he’d taken in her changing form that had made her realise. Foolish for a midwife to say, but until then the gradually increasing snugness of her attire had been attributed to her increased affinity for sweets that had developed at roughly the same time, and her unmatched desire to the reminder of her lover’s virility serving as midwife to yet another of his dalliances had caused. Faustus knew her every curve better than she herself did and suddenly what had seemed a set of unconnected inconveniences were unquestionable signs when viewed through his eyes.

The palpating resumed once more and all the counting in the world would not calm the blood pressure spike at the incompetence of it. To keep a mother in suspense, to not allay her fears of-

“I...Zelds,” Her hand was caught in Hilda’s, clammy fingers clutching tight, “I don’t think you’re pregnant.”

“Poppycock,” She huffed, snatching up the pinard horn, pressing it low on her abdomen. It was somehow colder than it had been before, “you’re not listening in the right spot.”

With a wave of her hand, she amplified the sound waiting for the heartbeat to echo off hollow walls and metallic surfaces. They were met with deafening silence. She dragged it along the surface of her stomach, angry red marks following in its wake. It could be difficult to find this early on, she’d told countless mothers the same.

And yet the silence only grew with each sweep of the horn across her skin.

Her hand stilled as Hilda’s caught it once more, her grasp as painfully reassuring as her carefully measured tone, “You’re 303. It’s not unheard of for witches to experience _the change_ so soon.”

It hurt to wrench her hand free from a grip so familiar, and yet it hurt more to be caught in such dashed hope. Before a further attempt at comfort could be offered, she was already shrugging down her dress, covering the treacherous curve of her stomach. Her feet were unsteady in her heels when they hit the stability of stone flooring.

“Zelda-”

“The second years have an Ancient Tongues exam in 20 minutes. What sort of example would I be setting if I was late?.”

Her walk to the Academy was filled only with silence.

* * *

She watched Faustus’ face fall as he entered the dining room that lunchtime. He clocked her immediately, saw the cigarette between pursed lips and knew, beyond all doubt, the implications: there would be no heir.

The waterglass in her hand shook as she set it down, turning her attention to whatever triviality Shirley had seen fit to engage her with. If only the kitchen stocked whiskey.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a big difference from my usual stuff, in terms of ship, writing style, and subject matter, so I'd really appreciate hearing your thoughts on what works/doesn't if you have the time to comment. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading and commenting! I adore every one of you!!


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